


We're Both Stubborn, I Know.

by TheItsyBitsyWriter



Series: We Started, Just Two Hearts In One Home [1]
Category: Bucky Barnes - Fandom, Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Steve Rogers - Fandom, SteveBucky - Fandom, Stucky - Fandom
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Character Death, Heartache, Heartbreak, Like Nirvana-Sad, M/M, More tags will be added later, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Sad, Sad Ending, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Tears, it's really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-12 12:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19132363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheItsyBitsyWriter/pseuds/TheItsyBitsyWriter
Summary: Natasha's gone. Bucky's gone. And Steve is hollow. But the emptiness he feels now is nothing compared to what he feels when he comes across a letter addressed to him, from Bucky. In it, he finds all the things Bucky never found the courage to say to his face.And is it a mere coincidence that these are all things Steve cowered away from for all those years?





	We're Both Stubborn, I Know.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer; before you start, please know that I, in no way, shape, or form, am trying to say that one should kill themselves if their love, or life isn't working out. Please seek help if you feel like that, suicide is never the option. Please, please, please seek help.  
> With that being said, the reason why a certain character chooses to give up is because we all know how his life went, it was sad and tragic. According to the most recent report published by the United States Department of Veterans Affairs (VA) in 2016, which analyzed 55 million veterans' records from 1979 to 2014, the current analysis indicates that an average of 20 veterans a day die from suicide.  
> A character will commit suicide for reasons that will be explained in the story, please note that it was not just because he lost the love of his life.  
> Triggers warning: suicide, thoughts of suicide, brief mentions of past torture and murder (basically the Winter Soldier's activities), also really, really angsty, and really, really sad.  
> So Endgame left me shattered, and instead of channeling my pain like a normal person, I decided to write a heart wrenching story that would make others hate me, and then be just as sad as me. We all deserve a "sad, moping buddy" in our lives :)  
> Enjoy x

_"How many hours are in a day?"_

_"Twenty four."_

_"And how many out of 'em do we spend together?"_

_"About sixteen... why?"_

_"That's right. Sixteen hours out of twenty four. We waste eight hours on sleep and food."_

_"Buck, what's your point? And since when do you think sleep is a waste of time?"_

_"My point is, we'd save so much time if we just... weren't apart for eight hours, s'all."_

_"...what?"_

_"Jesus, you're really gonna make me say it, Stevie?"_

_"Say what?"_

_"Alright then, fine... I think we should just start living together. It would just be better as a whole, y'know? No more running across town to get to each other, no more sleeping over in my work slacks, no more eight hours wasted."_

_"Buck, you're not serious. You can't be. You live with your Ma and your sisters, and your Pa can barely afford—"_

_"Which is why we'll live here. Pa will just be glad about one mouth less to feed."_

_"Here?! My apartment is tiny, Buck. Not big enough for the two of us."_

_"Well, you lived here with your Ma, didn't you? I'm always here anyway. We fit just find on this bed. C'mon, Stevie, it'll be fine. It'll be like an eternal sleepover. I'll braid your hair every night."_

_"Jerk."_

_"Punk. C'mon, whaddaya think, pal?"_

_"Alright, okay. But you're going to have to stop throwing your clothes around the whole place."_

_"Of course, yeah. Anything for you, punk."_

"Steve!" The sound of his name doesn't bring him out of his reverie; it is his shoulder being shaken that does it.

Tired blue eyes lift up and settle upon Sam's worried face. "Hm?"

Sam shakes his head, crouching down in front of the chair Steve is sitting in, but never giving up his grip on his shoulder. "Man, you spaced out again. I asked you about dinner. What would you like to have?"

Steve smiles slowly. It's awfully incredible of Sam to care so much for him. Truth is, Steve isn't sure if he deserves it. Not anymore, at least. Five years ago, sure, he might have. But if the last five years, after Thanos wiped away half of all life of Earth, have taught him anything, it's that forgiveness is earned, not sought out. And he certainly hasn't earned Sam's forgiveness. For five years, Steve gave up on Sam, on everyone who was taken away; he didn't look for a way to bring them back home. Natasha tried for so long, eventually she gave up too. But Steve has nothing clearing his conscious, he never even tried. He gave up without trying. So he isn't sure if Sam should ever forgive him, let alone give him a place in his own home.

There are a million and one things Steve wants to say to Sam: tell him how grateful he is for everything Sam has done for him; tell him how sorry he is for giving up without even trying; tell him that he missed every single thing, even the annoying ones, about him in those five years that he wasn't here. Instead, Steve tells him, "No thank you, Sam. I don't want dinner."

This makes Sam's face fall, and his shoulders visibly sag. "Don't do this, Steve, please. I know you've lived a life of your own, I know it's been decades for you. But for us, it’d only been a few minutes. Don't do this to yourself."

Steve lifts an age-withered hand to his face and rubs his cheek absently. "You're right, Sam, I have lived a long life of my own with her, and without all of you. But I am not doing anything; I just don't feel like dinner tonight."

"No, you're blaming yourself for it, and you know it." Sam snaps quite suddenly.

A tense moment later, Sam sighs and shakes his head. Only then Steve recalls that  _he_  wasn't only Steve's best friend, he was Sam's friend too. And they were close, had gotten close during those few months they were all fugitives. The memory brings a sad, forlorn smile to Steve's face.

"I'm sorry, Sam. Sometimes I get so deep inside my own head, I forget he meant something to you too."

To his credit, Sam doesn't berate Steve. Only nods in understanding and gives his shoulder a reassuring pat before taking his hand away. "He did, and I miss him too, Steve. Not as much as you, probably. But you're not alone. Shuri misses him too... And apparently so do the thirteen goats he took care of."

Steve laughs. It's genuine and it's new. He hasn't laughed like that in a while. Not since he helped lower that wooden coffin, with his best friend inside of it, six feet under the ground, a week ago. His laugh fades, and a soft frown comes over his features. He remembers how he felt when he heard the news. It wasn't supposed to be like this, it never was.

Bucky was not supposed to die. Not until he was old, and withered, and gray. Just like Steve. He wasn't supposed to die a young man of thirty, beautiful and vibrant as ever. It had been a mere week since they'd made the old cemetery in Brooklyn his final resting place— as per his wishes, even though Wakanda was the last place he'd seen, before his eyes had closed. Forever.

Ten days ago, everything was fine. It had been just a little over twelve months since the world as Steve Rogers had known it, had been changed forever. For him, though, it had been so many decades— he'd lost count somewhere in the 90's. But for the rest of the world, it had been twelve excruciatingly long months since Thanos had been defeated once and for all, since Tony Stark sacrificed himself for the greater good, since Natalia Alianova Romanoff sacrificed her life and was finally hailed as the hero she truly was, since half of all life on Earth was restored, since Steve went back in time, and lived out his life with Margaret Carter. For everyone on the planet, the recovery process had been long, and the remaining Avengers— _Earth's mightiest heroes_  as they'd once been called by International Media—had done their level best to restore Earth to its former glory. Six months after Thanos' defeat, everything had finally started to go back to normal, and that's when Bucky Barnes had decided he'd done his share of the work. He'd talked to Steve about it, and then bid everyone in New York a long-overdue farewell, and had retired back to Wakanda, where the King had been awaiting him and had welcomed him back with open arms. That's where Bucky had remained for the next six months, the last of his life.

Ten days ago, Steve Rogers had woken up to sunshine and birds singing, in Sam Wilson's home in Washington. He'd had his usual breakfast—cereal with toasted apples—and had gone about his daily routine—going out for a walk circling the neighborhood, then around the local park, and then coming back home and preparing to head to the VA, where he now worked as a grief counselor with Sam. He was an old man now, but the Serum made him as strong and as agile as ever, so he'd kept his routine up— except he no longer ran a hundred miles every morning. But that specific morning, he'd barely made it out of the door before Sam was calling him back in and pointing towards his phone— more often than not; Steve forgot to carry his phone now. But when Steve took his phone from between Sam's finger, he realized that the screen was lit up, and T'Challa was ringing him.

"Your Majesty." Steve had said when he'd answered the call, and smiled to himself. T'Challa did not like it when Steve addressed him by his royal title.

But that day, T'Challa hadn't taken the bait. His voice was grim— grimmer than it usually was. "Captain Rogers." A beat, a pause, Steve had waited for him to continue. "I am sorry."

Steve had paused in his attempts to leave the house for his morning walk. "What do you mean? Why are you sorry?"

"It's Sergeant Barnes, Captain."

"What's wrong? Is Bucky okay? Is every—"

"No, he's— he passed away, in his sleep. I am so sorry, Captain."

And T'Challa had said more words after that— Steve hadn't heard any one of them. He'd stumbled, and fell. Then Sam's arms were around him, pulling him back inside the hallway, shutting the front door, taking his phone, then exclaiming in shock— but Steve hadn't noticed anything. He doesn't recall anything after hearing that Bucky had died. In fact, the next thing he remembers is Bucky's body being brought to Brooklyn the very next day in T'Challa private jet, and Steve standing above the open casket, looking down into the face that brought him nothing but happiness and peace in the past. That very face that now brought him pain and heartache. The funeral was a private affair: with only Bucky's friends in attendance. Media outlets were not notified, Bucky wouldn't have wanted that. Steve remembers Pepper Potts beside him, holding onto Steve's shoulder in a firm grip— she'd suffered a loss just a year ago too. He remembers Okoye, and Shuri, and T'Challa, and Nakia, and Sam, and Thor, and Clint, and so many others who knew Bucky, who loved Bucky, who were there for him when Steve could not be. Steve thinks that if Natasha was alive, she'd be there too.

Steve remembers Bucky's funeral very well, remembers his sorry excuse for a eulogy too, and remembers that he didn't feel like it was real. Bucky couldn't be dead. And if he was, why wasn't Steve dead too? The last time Steve had thought Bucky had died, he had driven the _Valkyrie_ nose-first into the ocean. Steve had died because Bucky had died. So why hadn't Steve greeted the Reaper at that very moment?

Ten days later, Bucky was six feet under the ground, and Steve was hollow. He'd lost three of the people most important to him; Peggy, Natasha, and Bucky. They were gone. What was the point of Steve's life anymore? He wasn't Captain America; he was just an old man with a pile of regrets taller than the Chrysler Building, his guilt being the very foundation. James Barnes was no longer alive, so Steve Rogers should not have been either.

"Steve." Sam's face is right in front of his face. "Talk to me. What are you thinking of?"

Steve wants to say something about him not being another one of Sam's patients; that Steve was a grief counselor too, that he knew exactly how to coax someone into opening up. Instead, he shakes his head. "What am I doing here, Sam? He's gone. Peggy's gone, Nat's gone too. Bucky's gone, Sam. Why am I here?"

Sam's face falls at that, tears gather in his eyes and he looks away. Steve also looks away, towards his own bedroom; he can’t stand the sight of Sam crying for him. Then he nods to himself, "I think I'm going to see what is inside of that box now."

"Are you sure, Steve?"

"Honestly, Sam? I don't know that I am. But I'm going to have to someday, and I'd rather make it my choice than an obligation."

After the funeral, and after most of the people had left the cemetery, Steve had stayed behind. And it was several minutes later that T'Challa had come to Steve, and given him a short hug. Then he'd handed him a cardboard box of Bucky's belongings in Wakanda. He'd said Bucky would have wanted Steve to have them all. So Steve had taken it, but hadn't found the courage to look through it. But now, he gave Sam's arm a warm squeeze and stood up. His room was at the very back of the house, and he'd kept the box beside his bed. He looked at it every morning, and turned away every single time, wiping away inevitable tears. But now, when he enters his room and his eyes find the box, he doesn't turn away. Instead he grabs for it and places it on his bed before he sits down on the bed himself.

Inside the box, he finds a few clothes— all Bucky's since before Wakanda; two worn out hair ties that make him smile sadly; a photograph of Steve and Bucky, taken sometime in the 1930's, in it Bucky has his arm around Steve’s shoulders, and his nose pressed into Steve’s hair— Bucky was clearly drunk that night, and Steve wonders who even took this photograph of them; there was another photograph of Steve and Bucky, but in this one, they were both startlingly young, barely above fourteen, with wide eyes, flushed cheeks and adoring grins— Steve remembers this photograph, his Ma had taken it in their home. There were several other small worldly possessions in that box, and Steve’s heart aches more and more, as his fingers graze over each one.

The question lingers in his mind; _Bucky’s gone; so why isn’t he?_

Suddenly, something catches at the tip of his finger and he pushes aside Bucky’s diary to look, and finds a crisp, white envelope. It’s sealed, but there’s no emblem on the red wax. It’s stuffed between two of Bucky’s diaries, and he pulls it out. It’s addressed to him; ‘Stevie’ written in Bucky’s exceptionally neat handwriting— Bucky had always had neat handwriting, Steve remembers how easy it had always been to read the notes Bucky took for him on the days Steve was too sick to go to school.

Sitting there on his bed, with what is so clearly a letter addressed to him, written by his best friend; Steve’s hands begin to shake— slightly at first, which then escalate into tremors, that make him nearly drop the letter.

Why did Bucky write him a letter? Bucky kept diaries and journals, that much Steve knew— but he didn’t know Bucky wrote letters too. He had no reason to write letters— unless he wanted to send one to Steve, and never got a chance. Steve doesn’t know why Bucky would ever write him a letter, but he knows he needs to read this, it may be the closure he so desperately needs. He rips the envelope open and a letter spanning several pages, stapled together by the top left corner, slide out into his hands.

 _“Hey, Stevie;_  
_I hope this letter will find you well, and happy. I hope you’re doing good; I hope you’re taking care of yourself. But I hate to think of when exactly you’ll get this._  
_I’ll be long gone by that time, that’s for sure. ~~My body will have gone cold too by then.~~ Sorry, that was insensitive. Let’s start over, why don’t we? Hi, Steven; I miss you, buddy, and I know you miss me too. Its okay, we’re supposed to do that. I miss you more than I can ever put into words. ~~~~_  
_But first things first, old man, I hope to God you’re taking care of yourself; because I’d hate to come back as a poltergeist and kick your ass. Princess Shuri says it’s not nice to hurt senior citizens, and I agree with her. So please take care of yourself, don’t make me come back just for a beating, yeah?_  
_Now that, that is out of the way; I’d just like to say I’m sorry, Steve. I’m sorry for leaving you._  
_But I know you won’t be alone. You’ve got Sam, and you’ve got T’Challa, and you’ve got loads of others, even Peter— though I don’t know if he’ll stop gushing about you, long enough for you two to get to each other. He’s a good kid, Steve— reminds me of another self-sacrificing idiot I once knew (do you remember that scrawny little shit, too dumb not to run away?). Give Peter Parker a chance; I know you’ll like him._  
_I’m also very sorry for giving up. You know how you always got back up for a fight? Yeah, for so very long, Steve, I tried to do the same thing. I tried to get back up every time I was knocked down, I tried for so long, and then I just couldn’t. It became too much: the guilt, the sorrow, the regret._  
_I see you now, Steve, happy and old. And I wonder if I took that away from you before? If it weren’t for me; you’d never have taken the fight to Schmidt, you’d never have lost seventy years of your life, and you’d have gotten a chance to be with Peggy, without all this time-travelling nonsense. You’d never have lost your friends, especially Tony. I’m sorry I took away your first chance of happiness, I never meant to. I’m sorry, Steve. I’m so sorry._  
_But you’re happy now, you chose to live with Peggy, and you were happy. And God, Steve, I’m trying— I’m trying **so hard** to be happy, as well, believe me— but I just can’t. My smile for you now, the fondness I show for your stories with Peggy, they’re all lies. I’m not happy, Stevie, I’m not happy that you chose her._  
_I know you asked me before you left, and I know that I told you it was okay. But Morita was right when he said all those years ago that I had a knack for telling white lies to anyone’s face. I lied, Steve, because I knew it would make you happy. I would spend a lifetime telling thousands of lies if it meant you’d be happy. You wanted to go, you wanted your chance at happiness, and you wanted Peggy; so I let you go. I told you I was okay with you leaving, that I was okay with you living a life of your own— the life you deserved. But I lied, Stevie, it killed me inside when I hugged you goodbye. And it killed me a little more when you hugged me hello._  
_I died inside a long time ago, Steve; I just didn’t want to leave you before I knew you’d be okay. And you will be okay, I know it, I know you. You’ll be fine, old man._  
_I’m sorry; I know this is selfish of me. I never even gave you a fair chance, and I still have the nerve to complain about it. I’m sorry— God, I’m saying that an awful lot. But I mean it, Steve, I really, truly am so sorry for this; for everything._  
_The reason why I’m so unhappy with your decision is simple: **I love you.** I have always loved you, Steve, before I even knew what love really was._  
_At first, I didn’t understand why I described the color of your eyes as the colors of the waters of the Caribbean, and just as pure. I didn’t understand why I always, without fail, ditched my ladies halfway through dates to be with you. I didn’t understand why I found little things about you so endearing; the flutter of eyelashes, the tip of your mouth into a smile, the way your quirked an eyebrow when you were amused, the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, and how your eyes narrowed when you were angry._  
_But I finally understood, later; we were thirteen, and you got sick in the winter. It was a fever, but it turned bad, and I almost lost you to pneumonia. Stevie, you had stopped breathing in my arms, and I thought I’d lost you forever. I remember it was just past two, and the sky was still dark as Death’s eye, but I took you in my arms and I ran all the way to the hospital, where you Ma worked. The folks at the hospital helped you breathe, and in the morning you woke up. Stevie, I felt like life had been returned to me when I saw those clear baby blues. It was magical, it really was. I almost kissed you that day. ~~I wish I had.~~_  
_I went home, and I thought long and hard to myself. Few hours later, I was back at the hospital, with my arm around you, and you still burning up a hundred— but you were fine, and I was mess, but long as you were okay, so was I. That was the day I realized I ~~loved you,~~ was in love with you. I remember the date, too: the 22nd of December, in 1930._  
_It’s been around ninety-four years since I’ve known that I loved you. And ninety-four years since I’ve been a coward. I never told you, Steve, I never had the courage to. You are my happy beginning, and my sad ending, so I couldn’t lose you, I couldn’t even risk it._  
_You always talked about how you thought I was brave for fighting off bullies, for standing up for what was right, for joining the Army. But you were wrong, I was never the brave one— you were. It was always you, all along. Truth is, Steve, I’m a coward— I always have been. If I hadn’t been a coward I would’ve told you I love you while I still lived and breathed. I would’ve awaited your judgment and your punishment, and I would’ve accepted it with a brave face. But I just couldn’t do it, Steve. You mean everything to me, and I would’ve died a lot sooner had I lost you by being honest._  
_But you deserve to know, Steve. You always deserved to know, and I should’ve told you this a long time ago. And it’s too late now, but I still want to tell you. I love you, Steve Rogers; you’re the only one for me. You always have been._  
_And if you ever find yourself wondering… then let me answer it for you right now: no, it won’t hurt. Because you see, I’m choosing the easy way out, Steve. It would be like falling asleep, quickly and quietly. It will be an Opioid overdose, and it won’t hurt. Not as much as remembering all the horrible things I’ve done over the years, anyway. When Princess Shuri got the HYDRA stuff out of my head, I started to remember. I spent two years remembering, Steve. Every single horrible thing the Winter Soldier ever did, I remembered them all. I remember killing Howard and Maria, I remember Maria begging me not to, and I remember the crunch of bone under my fingers. I took so many lives, Steve; so it’s fitting I take one last one— my own. Those people that ~~the Winter Soldier~~ that **I** killed deserved to live, I don’t._  
_No one, except you, will ever know that War Hero Sergeant James B. Barnes was a coward and took his own life— please don’t ever let them find out._  
_I’m sorry, Steve, for everything. I truly am. I never meant to hurt you, or anyone else. I am just a colossal fuck-up and I ended up hurting thousands of people. But I never meant to, Steve, **I never meant to**._  
_You lived a life with Peggy Carter, Steve, and nothing hurts more than that. You **chose** her, and I don’t blame you even for a second. Why wouldn’t you? She was everything you liked; whip-smart, tongue sharp as frost, words intermingled with wit, eyes a blazing blue. Peggy was perfect, and I’m glad she made you happy. You deserve to be happy, Steve. I won’t say I’m happy that you spent your life with her, but I’m happy that you were happy. She was wonderful, and I’m glad it was her and not (as much as I like her) Sharon— no you will never be able to move past that, Sam will always make sure of it, even if I’m not here to._  
_You were always my first priority with everything, Steve, and now that you’re okay, now that I know you will always be okay, I feel like I’m finally done. I can be at peace now, Stevie._  
_Always remember that I loved you first, Stevie, before anyone else, I loved you without limits and conditions, and I loved you more than life itself. I loved you back in 1930, and I love you now, and I always will. And for that I will never be sorry._  
_Yours forever, in this lifetime and every other,_  
_Buck x”_

 

For a very long time, Steve sits in silence, rereads the five pages over and over again, and blissfully thinks of nothing. But after he reads the letter for the seventh time, his mind, instead of remaining blank, plays a memory for him:

_Steve is thirteen, and Bucky is fourteen, and they’re lying in the bed of George Barnes’s pickup truck, underneath an inky black sky, flawed by hundreds of milky white stars smattered across the darkness, like flecks of paint across a canvas. Bucky’s pointing to different constellations, and Steve’s trying his hardest to remember the names. They have a Geography test tomorrow in school, and they should be studying for it. Sister Elizabeth will be livid if they fail Geography— again. Instead of studying, though, Bucky’s got his hand on Steve’s leg where it’s bent at the knee, the knobby thing pointing up towards the sky, and he’s squeezing it as he laughs. It’s distracting Steve, and he’s getting all the names of the stars wrong._

_“—and that one?” Bucky’s index finger is pointing towards the Pegasus constellation. Steve tells him, and Bucky nods. “What about that one? On the top?”_

_Steve lifts his chin a little higher, and his head tips back into the ratty old blanket they’re laying on top of. “Um— I don’t know… I think it’s the Drago constellation?”_

_“Oh, the name sounds cool, doesn’t it?” Bucky asks him, tipping his head back a fraction, as well._

_“It does. It’s Latin for dragon.” Steve, ever the know-it-all, informs him, and Bucky lets out a low whistle._

_“Imagine being named Dragon, Stevie, everyone would be so afraid. No one would ever mess with you.”_

_“I can’t ever imagine anyone being afraid of me, Buck.”_

_“Someday, they will be. Someday, you’ll be so big—figuratively—that they won’t be able to help their fear and admiration. You’re Steven Rogers, your name literally means victorious, and renowned spearman. So let’s just say that if they don’t fear you now, they’ll fear you in the future.”_

_“You really think so?”_

_“I know so, punk.” Bucky tells him, turning his head to face the blonde. “You’re so much more than your body, Steve, I hope you know that. Those jerks—“ he raises his left hand up between them, and with his thumb, traces the fresh bruise—courtesy of Donald Hansson, the racist fifteen-year-old down the street—blooming on the top of Steve’s right cheekbone, “—have nothing on you, because they don’t even know how strong you are inside. They just know how to break your body, but not your spirit. I know that, and I know just how much it’s worth. And a spoiler for you, buddy; it’s worth this world and the next.”_

_Steve smiles at that, moving the muscles in his face hurts the bruise, but he smiles nonetheless— he can’t help it, Bucky’s words usually bring out the smile in him. They look at each other, smiling too wide, their faces too close. And the backs of Bucky’s fingers are now caressing Steve’s cheek softly. And Steve’s heart is beating too fast; he can feel the inside of his elbows sweating, and Bucky’s too close to him, his body heat too sharp. But Bucky’s staring at Steve’s mouth— and oh God, is Bucky leaning in towards his mouth? Steve’s heartbeat is uncontrollably fast now, his eyes are so wide, they actually hurt. And there’s silence between them, but Bucky’s fingers have stilled on Steve’s face and he’s very, very close. Another millimeter and Bucky’s lips will touch Steve’s, and—_

_The porch light flicks on, and momentarily blinds both boys, whose eyes had grown accustomed to the dark after having been out for ages. “James?” the door of the Barnes’ household opens and the light from inside falls across the truck parked out front. Winifred Barnes looks around and calls out again, “Steve? Dinner’s ready, boys. Come on inside.”_

_Bucky is the first to rise, “Okay, Ma, be right there!” he calls out, while leaning on his elbows. His mother nods, says something about them hurrying, and then she disappears back inside the house, leaving the door open for the boys. Once she’s gone, Bucky turns back to Steve and smiles widely. Steve smiles back at him, though his heart is still racing a mile a minute. He vaguely wonders if he’s having a heart attack— he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he was. “Lessgo, Stevie, before she comes back out and threatens us with her ladle.”_

_At this, Steve laughs, and watches as Bucky hauls himself up and out of the truck with ease. He distinctly wishes he could move like that too, but no— his frail body only allows clumsy movements. But Bucky doesn’t allow that, instead he helps Steve climb down, and then swoops in, pressing his lips on top of the bruise. Steve squirms under Bucky’s arm and leans away, laughing. “I thought we agreed you’d stop doing that.”_

_“No,_ you _said I should stop doing that to you, and I said I’d been doing it since we were six, and I will do it forever.” Bucky informs him nonchalantly, and then throws his right arm around his shoulder. “Dinner’s gonna get cold, punk, come on.”_

_“Jerk.” Steve tells him, but allows himself to be steered away towards the house regardless. As he sits with Bucky and his family at their dinner table that night—Sarah’s working a late shift at the hospital again, and he’s to stay over at the Barnes’ household, something about the water not working in the Rogers’ apartment—he pointedly does not think about that moment in the truck. But when he’s lying down with Bucky in his bed, facing his best friend’s back, he lets himself think. And quickly finds that there isn’t much to think about, just that if Bucky had kissed him earlier, he would have let him, and he might have even kissed him back— that is, if he actually knew how to._

A sob rips past Steve’s lips and he lets the letter drop on the bed. His hands come up to his face and he hides behind them. Oh, he’s an idiot. He’s such an idiot. He is a stupid, stupid man. A fool. The tears that slip past his eyes get trapped in his hands. They’re meaningless now, they mean nothing. Not to him, and certainly not to Bucky. Steve Rogers is stupid, but so is Bucky Barnes. He should’ve told Steve, he should’ve told him a long time.

Everything could have been different. So different. Steve would never have let Bucky go; and he never would have stayed in the past for longer than it took for the dance he owed his best girl. But Steve would have come back, for Bucky. He would have lived his life out with Bucky, just like he’d always wanted to. Bucky would still be alive, Steve would have made sure of that.

“Oh, Buck…” Steve says into the empty room, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, doesn’t know if it’s been hours or mere minutes. But what does it matter? Nothing matters anymore. Not to Steve. He’s lost Bucky, forever, and more times than he cares to count.

Bucky said he was a coward, and that Steve was the brave one. But he’s wrong, Steve is also a coward. Because cowards do what Steve did; for years he kept a secret— one that he should’ve told a long time ago. He should’ve told Bucky how much he meant to Steve, and that Steve loved him, just as much as he loved Steve. That Steve had loved him since the night they laid out in the back of his Pa’s truck, and that he loved him a little more when they had to say goodbye. That Steve loved Peggy too, that he would always love her. But that Steve was _in love with Bucky_ , and the he would forever be the only one for Steve.

For years, Steve watched Bucky get all the ladies. For years, Steve tried to convince himself that he was jealous of Bucky, not the dames. For years, Steve looked away every time a pair of ruby red lips rested on top of Bucky’s bowed ones. For years, Steve loved Bucky, and died on the inside. For years, Steve sat up in his bed at night, listening for the familiar footfall, hoping Bucky would come home to him, _not_ smelling like cheap perfume and liquor. For years, Steve watched Bucky, fell in love a little more each day, and hated himself for it. And for all those years were worth, Steve never said a word to Bucky.

Only if he had: Bucky would still be alive, Steve would be able to kiss him and tell him how much he was loved, every single day. He would hold Bucky’s hand in public, and not care that they’d be the next day’s front page. He would marry him—they were allowed that right now—in front of those closest to them, but he would love him in front of the whole world. If Bucky’s face was the first thing he saw everyday as soon as he awoke, then Steve Rogers would be eternally happy, he would never complain about anything. He would die a happy man.

Because if Steve Rogers could be with Bucky Barnes, then the rest of the world just didn’t matter. Because it would be “Steve and Bucky, against the world,” just like it was always supposed to be, just like it always should have been.

But he was too late, because Bucky Barnes was gone, and Steve Rogers— well, he was alive, but barely.

And as Steve sat on his bed and took his hands away from his face, his fingers found the photograph of them in his Ma’s living room. Two happy faces, frozen in laughter forever, stared back at him from the old sepia photo. Nimble fingers touched the cheek of his love, and he smiled. His lips pressed against the image of Bucky Barnes and a sob ripped past his lips. “I love you, Buck, I always have. I’ll get to tell you that someday…” his eyes drifted upwards, and he looked at the ceiling for a minute, before they dropped towards the digital clock on the wall, which showed him it was almost midnight. He smiled slowly, “…soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Stucky has always been my number one ship, my actual OTP, and I decided it was high time I tried my hand at writing them. So this is my absolute first attempt at writing a SteveBucky fic, so please be kind. Actually, it's my first attempt at the Marvelverse, so please please please be honest and kind, thank you. (Though to be fair, some time ago, I wrote a short SamBucky fluffy one-shot for my friend, but it lacked the depth and character this one has, so it doesn't really count.)  
> It was 7 a.m. and I was really, really, really sad, and this idea just came to me and I hate it just as much as you probably do. I am so sorry.  
> Also, yes, the title is a lyric from "Sweet Creature" by Harry Styles, go give it a listen, it's amazing.  
> I promise I'll write an Endgame fix-it fic soon, that will all of you not hate me so much :)


End file.
